


Boneyard

by Feline_Hegemony



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25915849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feline_Hegemony/pseuds/Feline_Hegemony
Kudos: 4





	Boneyard

You know how it is when you’re really into a bird, and you get dragged along to things you wouldn’t dream of otherwise? It’s the worst, isn’t it? She swore she wasn’t religious, but her granddad had just died, and she felt so guilty because he always wanted her to go to church. And of course I got pulled into it. So that’s why instead of spending my Sunday morning having a nice sleep, I found myself at St Botolph’s parish church, listening to some vicar talk about how the fight between God and the Devil was symbolic. Or something more or less along those lines; Didn’t take long for me to zone out, even after my girl elbowed me in the ribs to wake up.

Afterwards she wanted to go do the social hour thing, catch up with a few of the people who hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl. I told her I’d meet her in a bit, even though I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Maybe I could catch a snooze in the car while she was distracted with the old folks. That’s when the vicar pulled me to one side.

“Liam, right?” He was a young bloke, not much older than me. Glasses, ginger beard. Looked like a right tosser. “I’m Eric, the curate here. Steph’s told me about you.”

Oh boy. Talking about me with her family vicar. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

“Listen, Rev,” I started.

“Just Eric’s fine,” he said.

“…Listen, Eric, mate. It’s just a bit of fun, right? I’m not thinking of getting married or anything.” 

He blinked, moving his glasses up the bridge of his nose a bit. “She said you were looking for work, actually.”

“Oh.” Well, it was true. Cambridge isn’t the best place in the world to be when you’ve been laid off and the bills are starting to pile up. I didn’t even have the money to get the lights in my flat checked, or to see someone about that bloody draught. She didn’t have to go blabbing to people about it, though.

“You’re doing odd jobs at the moment, right? I might have just the thing for you,” he said, reaching for his glasses again. Nervous habit? “You’ve seen the churchyard outside, haven’t you? Well… There’s a little problem. One I’m not quite sure how to deal with, frankly.”

“What, you need the place de-weeded? I can do that, but the pay had better be good.”

“Not… exactly,” he said, shaking his head. “You see, the thing is, I think the churchyard is haunted. That is to say, I think we have a ghost.”

A silence hung in the air for a minute.

“Uh… huh,” I said finally, mostly because it didn’t seem like he was going to say anything until I did. “Right. A ghost. Have you considered getting Bill Murray to help you with that?”

He went on, ignoring my dated pop culture reference. “I can’t go to the diocese about this. Or the parishioners. They’d think I was crazy.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I muttered under my breath. Then I realized he was right in front of me, so he probably heard me say that.

He sighed. “I suppose it’s not that important that you believe me. I just need someone to get in touch with Arnie – that is to say, Mr Arnolds, the vicar – for me.”

“I thought you were the vicar,” I interrupted.

“I’m the curate,” he reminded me.

“What’s a curate?”

“It’s like… your first clergy position after you graduate seminary and get ordained. A time to get to grips with what ministry and parish life look like, putting the theory into practice as it were, learning from the example of a more experienced clergyperson-“

“Got it, you’re the intern. Why can’t you just go talk to this Arnie bloke yourself?”

“He’s on a prayer retreat right now. They’re doing a whole thing where they disconnect from the distractions of modern technology. No mobile phones, no social media. I don’t know if he’s checking his e-mails, but if he is he hasn’t gotten back to me. So I just need someone… unconnected with the church to drive on over and see if he can’t help somehow.”

“And I get paid for this, right? By you or by the church? I doubt you have any money, and how are you going to get the church to pay me if they’re not supposed to know about this?”

He chuckled, fidgeting with his glasses again. “Asking the important questions. I can see why Steph likes you. We’ll… work something out.”

“So you need someone to go on this completely mad trek to get rid of a ghost that’s probably all in your head, and you can’t even guarantee you’ll have any dosh for me when I’m done. Mate, I’d have to be **pretty damn** desperate to go for something like that.”

Half an hour later, I was on my way to the middle of the Fenlands, on a trek to find Arnie the vicar. Eric had given me an address, but it was like they’d made the place as hard to find as possible. Thank Christ for Google Maps. My phone went off at one point – text from my girl asking where I was. I ignored it.  
  
The place they were having the retreat was an old converted farm, with a handful of cottages for the guests. Not the worst place for a holiday, if it weren’t right on the edge of a peat bog. The girl at the desk – real fit bird – pointed me to the vicar’s cottage right quick. I’d like to think it’s because I’m such a charmer, but honestly it was probably mostly because Eric had told me to say it was a “pastoral emergency”. Whatever that means.

I knocked on the door, then went in when there was no reply. There was an older bloke sitting at a desk with his hands folded, muttering something to himself with his eyes shut. He was dressed like someone’s dad. Probably was someone’s dad, actually. He looked up as the door swung open. “Who the hell are you?”

“Liam. Your intern sent me.”

“What? Oh, you mean Eric. What’s so important that it can’t wait til I get back? Did someone die? I hope it was Jack Taylor.”

I shrugged. “Don’t think I can help you with that one, mate. But listen, I reckon the pressure of filling in for you is getting to him. He’s sounding a bit touched, if you get my drift. Says there’s a ghost in your graveyard.”

The man – Arnie, I suppose - raised his bushy, graying eyebrows. “That so? Well, that is rare. I haven’t heard tell of a paranormal sighting in years. Not a legitimate one, anyway. I’m assuming this _is_ legitimate?”

Great. He was a believer too. Nutters of a feather… “Uh… Sure. Listen, are you able to take care of it or something? Only I’m supposed to get paid for dragging you back there, so if you don’t actually know what to do...”

“Of course I know how to deal with a ghost,” he interrupted. “You’re looking at the former exorcist on staff for the Diocese of Ely. Back when we had a bishop who believed in this kind of thing. You’d be hard pressed to find a minister in the country who still does. Not that most of them ever did. Too irrational, too unscientific, they’d tell me. But who would they come crying to when their church A/V system got possessed?”

“Great, so I’ll just tell Eric you’re on your way-“

“But no, I can’t go take care of it. I put down good money for this retreat, and they don’t do refunds. Do you have any idea how pitiful a vicar’s stipend is? And I had to put my kid through art school – Goddamn art school – so unless **you’re** willing to help with some of that debt…”

I was about to go off on him for wasting my time, but before I could he started rummaging through his suitcase. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. Here, catch,” he continued, tossing something at me which hit me square in the face.

It was a tiny charm on a string, shaped like a skull. Bit naff, really. “Where’d you get something like this? No, let me guess. Witch doctor? Indian fakir? Mysterious gypsy who set up a tent one day only to vanish without a trace?”

“I bought it off of Etsy,” he replied.

“Oh.”

“…and then had it enchanted by a gypsy witch doctor from India. It’ll let you commune with the dead. From my experience, spirits generally have something that’s keeping them from passing on. Or something that’s brought them back. Either way, figure out the root cause and you can send them on their way to the Lord’s embrace.”

“So I have to do your ghostbusting for you. Great. And what if I get killed by this thing?” I wasn’t really worried. I could probably just go loiter in the boneyard then tell Eric some rubbish about his problem being sorted. Still, Arnie obviously thought this BS was real, and if he thought he could throw me under the bus, he had another thing coming.

He scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not like the horror movies. Ghosts don’t just attack random people. Sometimes they might be looking for vengeance against a specific person, but you don’t know anyone who was buried at St Botolph’s, do you?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t in the habit of hanging around religious nutters, and this whole day wasn’t going to do anything to change that.

It took a bit to get back to the city. I grabbed a bite to eat at Greggs and checked my phone before heading back to the church. Missed call from the girlfriend. Christ, she was needy. I pocketed the charm and walked into the graveyard. I’d only been looking around for a minute or two when I felt a cold mist snaking round my legs. The warm summer day had suddenly given way to a chill that crept its way up my spine, as a breeze that wasn’t there before whispered through the boughs of the twisted yews. And it seemed… Darker. I looked up. The sun had vanished, almost too quick to notice, behind a layer of heavy grey clouds that seemed to have come out of nowhere. In a matter of minutes, the weather had changed completely.

In other words, it was a completely normal day in England.

I stood around for a few minutes, polished off my sausage roll from Greggs, and got ready to head back inside and tell Eric all about how I’d gotten rid of his “ghost”. All of a sudden, I see this distant figure stepping behind some old tomb and disappearing from my sight. Looked real pale and sickly like. Must have been Irish.

“Oi!” I called after him. No reply. Probably should check it out. If he was doing a bit of vandalism, I didn’t want Eric thinking I’d done it. I made my way over to the tomb. Really bad repair; practically falling to pieces. The church must be hurting for cash. The sky was getting darker now, like it was going to rain. And… There wasn’t anyone there. I’d seen the bloke go back here with my own eyes, and there wasn’t anywhere else for him to have sneaked past me. He didn’t go _inside_ the tomb, did he? Christ, what kind of sicko was hiding out here? Maybe there was a rational explanation for Eric’s ghost. Maybe I should just call the police and get the hell out of here.

I turned to go and tripped over a gravestone, dropping my phone in the mud. “Shit,” I swore, dropping to my knees to grab it. I found myself face to face with the inscription on the gravestone then. Looked pretty new, actually.

> _Jack Taylor_
> 
> _1937-2019_
> 
> _Beloved husband and grandfather_
> 
> _Whoever believes in him may have eternal life. – John 3:15_

Jack Taylor… Where’d I heard that name before?

The wind rustling the leaves was picking up. Sounded almost like whispering, even. I had my phone now, anyway. I got to my feet, turned, and found myself face to face with a ghost.

Either that or the most unnerving old man I’d ever seen. But my money was on ghost, considering I could see through his skull. His eyes were the color of milk and he was missing patches from his scraggly beard. He had on the coveralls of a coal miner, faded and muddy. And when he opened his craggy, toothless mouth to talk, it was in a thick Northern accent.

“Reet. So you’re t’ sorrih sack o’shite who’s bin mistreatin ower tad Stephanie.”

An icy mist poured from his mouth as he talked, heavy with the scent of decay, swirling in the air around us. The fog pressed in, and before I knew it it was just the two of us standing there in the mist. It was like the world had melted away around me. I fidgeted with the charm in my pocket, thinking of the right thing to say in this situation.

“What?” I said.

“Wahr dust mean, ‘wahr’?” the ghost demanded.

“I don’t speak Northerner,” I said.

“Tha’ excuse won’t sairv thee, boy. Dust knah ah manih tarms shi cried on t' telephone t' us? Cried because o' sommit you'd said ah done?”

She’d… cried because of me?

“It airt us up inside, it did. Ar told ah shi deserved bettah than t' likes o' thee. Boot shi wouldn't listen, oh nah. Shi thurrt shi could "fix thee". As if thee wur a dunted pickaxe! Minin tools, thee can fix. Bloodih bastards, not so much.”

“I didn’t know,” I protested, trying to take a step backwards – but it was like I was rooted to the spot.

“O' course thee didn't,” he spat. “Nevah did fink o' anyone boot thesen, did thee? Even when shi cairm t' t' ospital t' see us fah t' final tarm, ah eyes wur red 'n puffih . Shi tried tiv ide it, boot ar could see. 'N if thee wur wurf owt as a blurk, thee would av picked up on it too. Boot maybe I'd gotten t' wrong impression o' thee. Maybe ar needed t' see fah me-sen. So ar did.”

Just like the mist, the ghost’s accent seemed to be getting thicker by the minute. But I reckoned I’d gotten the gist of what he was saying.

“Yeah – yeah, you’ve got the wrong idea, mate. Sir. I’m not a bad bloke when you get to know me, honest.”

The ghost laughed then, a crackling, hollow laugh. “Ar just told thee ar saw fah me-sen. Since t' dair ar died, I've bin watchin thee, Liam Brown. Watchin thee everih action. Judgin thee.”

I thought back to the draught in my flat, the flickering lights, the pints of milk someone kept leaving half-drunk in the fridge… Actually, that last one was probably my flatmate Kevin.

“Stephanie be a sweet lass,” the ghost said, looking off somewhere with a wistful tone in his voice. “Ar always told ah shi would be bettah off ba you...”

Something in me went cold. Well, colder. What did that vicar say? Fixing the root cause would send the ghost away. And if the root cause was me…

I turned and ran. I didn’t care that I couldn’t see through the mist. I stumbled over tree roots, or maybe a hand grasping at my ankle – I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I ran faster than I’d ever run before. Behind me I could hear the rapid clanging of a pickaxe. I wasn’t putting much space between me and him. I picked up the pace. The clanging followed. At the same time, a voice called my name from somewhere close by.

I could see a shape looming ahead in the mist. A car. My car? I had to get to it – I was so close. I ran towards it, pulling my keys out of my pocket in a fluid motion. Wait, those weren’t my keys – It was the bloody charm, the one for “communing with the dead”. Suddenly I heard the screeching of brakes and felt a horrible pain tearing through me. 

* * *

The young clergyman looked drawn, tired. He dug one hand in his pocket while toying with his glasses with the other. Nervous habit, but the other man could sympathize. This was a stressful situation, no doubt.

“I don’t understand it, officer,” Eric said. “He just ran into the street all of a sudden, like he didn’t care where he was going. I tried calling out to him, but…”

“…But he just threw himself in front of that car. I understand. And you don’t know if he had any suicidal tendencies?”

Eric shook his head. “I only met him the one time. Seemed like a decent enough sort. His girlfriend really seemed to love him – she actually asked for my help getting him out of the way so she could get a surprise birthday party ready for him, you know?”

“How did you do that?”

Eric laughed sheepishly, then looked immediately forlorn. “I made up some odd job that needed doing. In hindsight I should have thought of something more plausible… After all, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”


End file.
